


The woman of his dreams

by fromthedeskoftheraven



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dreams, Dreamsharing, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fromthedeskoftheraven/pseuds/fromthedeskoftheraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin’s dreams reveal his true feelings to the woman who has the ability to see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The woman of his dreams

The woods are quiet, save for the droning snores of the dwarves and the crackling of the campfire as you feed it with sticks and mossy branches. You train your eyes on the trees around you, willing yourself to stay alert despite the heaviness of your eyelids, encouraging yourself with the thought that your watch will soon come to an end. Sleep will be especially welcome tonight, after a long day of trudging through field and forest…and when your weariness is heightened by the effort it takes to keep the dreams of your slumbering companions from crowding into your mind.

No healer has ever been able to explain your strange gift, and you’ve seen many of them since the day when, as a small child, you first astonished your parents with detailed descriptions of the content of their dreams. As you grew older you gained greater control of your abilities, teaching yourself to shut out the images as though closing a door in your mind, but this discipline is always far more difficult when you are tired, and since joining the company of Thorin Oakenshield, you can scarcely remember a time when you haven’t been tired.

With a resigned sigh, your gaze becomes unfocused, staring aimlessly into the darkness, and slowly, irresistibly, their dreams come to you. Strong emotions – fear, anger, passion, love – always push their way to the forefront, and your brow contracts with concern as Dwalin reenacts the battle with the three trolls, finding that no matter how furiously he swings his axe, the creatures are always just beyond its reach. Fili works determinedly in a blacksmith’s forge, hammering at a golden crown that refuses to yield to his desperate efforts to shape and refine it. Nori is in a clinch with a lusty dwarrowdam in a broom closet, and as her fingers wander to the laces of his trousers, you quickly turn your attention elsewhere.

Ori dreams of a library of stunning size and scope, and you smile at his joy in it. Bofur is alone on a quiet lakeshore, dipping a fishing pole into a deep, still pool as smoke from his pipe curls upward into the crisp air. Kili sits as a child at his mother’s knee while she lovingly brushes and braids his hair. 

With a wide yawn, you gather your thoughts, and have just moved to get up and wake Gloin to take the second watch when you freeze, feeling a strange sensation, as though you’ve just heard a voice that you know and love distantly calling your name. A puzzled frown creases your brow. With only a moment’s attention, you know whose dream you are seeing, and yet it makes no sense. Why should his thoughts provoke such a powerful reaction from you? Closing your eyes, you tune your senses to him, opening your mind completely to his imagination.

_Thorin stands in a wide, grassy, sundrenched field. His hair is ruffled by a soft breeze, and his expression is as you’ve never seen it in his waking hours: relaxed, carefree, content. He holds a flower of vibrant yellow that he offers to a woman who stands beside him, and as she turns, you are stunned to see your own face. It is undeniably your face, and yet somehow more beautiful than you have ever looked. You take the flower from his hand and give him a radiant smile in return, and he takes you confidently into his arms, where you nestle close to his heart and raise your lips to his, fairly glowing with happiness as he kisses you…_

You start violently upon feeling a hand on your shoulder and open your eyes, finding yourself jolted back to the dark campsite, looking into Gloin’s exasperated face.

“Asleep on watch, lass?” His voice has a scolding tone.

“N-no,” you stammer, “no, I wasn’t asleep, I just…” your voice trails off helplessly, and your confusion is clearly plain on your face, for Gloin’s expression softens.  


“Happens to all of us sometimes. You’ve got to wake your replacement if you don’t want to be here all night, lassie. Now, off to bed with you.”  


“Right…thank you,” you nod, and escape to your bedroll, where you huddle under your blankets and ponder the images in Thorin’s dream, still vivid in your mind. Perhaps it is simply a strange, random occurrence; you know better than anyone that there’s no telling what flights of fancy might dance through a person’s mind while they sleep. Still, everything about the dream was so tender, so romantic, so utterly unlike anything you would expect from the company’s gruff leader, that it remains before your eyes, even as you fall into your own exhausted, dreamless sleep.  


During the day that follows, you observe Thorin closely, and become aware of a dozen small kindnesses that have never seemed significant before. When you join the group for breakfast in the morning, he casually vacates a seat next to the fire to make a space for you. As you press forward on the day’s march, he falls back in the column to ask whether you have enough water in your canteen. In camp, when Bombur offers him the first serving of rabbit stew for supper, he wordlessly passes it on to you and awaits the next bowl.

Neither you nor Thorin is on watch that night, and when you lie down once again on your bedroll, looking up at the dance of firelight and shadow on the evergreen canopy, curiosity burns within you as you wonder and wait. His mind is blank to you for an hour, then another, and just as you are about to succumb to your own drowsiness, a picture begins to swim into focus and suddenly you are wide awake, nearly holding your breath in your will to concentrate. 

_Thorin is alone in a grand chamber, its carven stone walls lit by a blaze of torchlight, a throne in its center. His face suddenly brightens with a smile as he catches sight of you walking toward him, wearing a jeweled circlet of gold on your head and holding the hand of a little girl who has Thorin’s dark curls and your eyes. With a gleeful skip, she lets go of your hand and runs to him, and he bends with open arms and twinkling eyes to scoop her up and toss her into the air, making her squeal with laughter. He catches her again, chuckling, and settles her on his hip as he greets you fondly with a kiss._

_He takes you by the hand and leads you through an arched doorway, and abruptly the scene changes. The chamber, the throne, the child have all vanished, and there is a campfire in a grove of trees, and the two of you are alone under a starry sky. You lie bare and yearning in his arms, and he is passionate and proud and happy, and the voice of your conscience speaks loudly:_ close the door.

You turn onto your side to stare into the real campfire with a stab of guilt at having witnessed this most intimate of his imaginings…and yet you cannot deny that in your heart of hearts you are stirred by the thought of Thorin dreaming of you as his lover, his Queen, the mother of his children. 

What sleep you have that night is fitful. You are the last of the company to wake, though the clouds are still tinted with the pink of sunrise, and by the time you have splashed your face with water at a nearby stream and straggled back into camp, bowls of warmed-over stew and slices of bread are being handed around for the morning meal. 

“Mornin’, lass,” Bofur calls cheerfully to you as he ladles out portions of stew. “Thorin’s just gone over that way,” he jerks his head in the direction of a clearing a short distance away. “Do us a favor and fetch him to breakfast?” Though you smile and nod amiably, your heart seems to skip a beat.

Thorin is seated on a fallen log at the far edge of the clearing, looking toward the campsite. He stands, surprised to see you, and his rare smile is warm, if curious, as you walk through the waving grasses toward him. You return his smile, noticing for the first time how the corners of his eyes crinkle, the way his whole face subtly softens when he looks at you. He gestures toward the log, asking quietly, “would you care to sit?”

The thought of breakfast has vanished from your mind as you take a seat, and he resumes his place, now beside you. Your eyes sweep over the little meadow, with its colorful sprinkling of wildflowers, and you sigh unconsciously.

“What is it?” he asks.

A blush warms your cheeks as you realize he is watching you. “I hadn’t noticed how lovely this place is,” you gesture lightly toward the scene before you, “the flowers are beautiful.”  


He nods, and ventures, “do you like flowers?”

“Very much,” you smile. “My mother always had a beautiful garden…when I was a little girl, she would let me help her plant seeds and weed the beds, and pick bouquets to bring inside for the table. My favorites were always sweet peas, they come in so many colors, and just one sprig can scent a whole room…” You trail off, laughing sheepishly. “I’m sorry, I can’t imagine why I’m telling you this.”  


“Don’t apologize,” he says, and his eyes are kind. “On a journey such as this, it is comforting to think of home.” He is quiet for a moment before saying, “I wish I could show you the wildflowers outside Erebor. They will be gone this time of year, but they are as golden as my grandfather’s treasure, and the river valley is carpeted with them in the Springtime. I think you would enjoy them,” he smiles.  


“I am sure I would,” you reply, holding his gaze before turning again to the meadow.  


He is studious in peeling bits of bark from the log before beginning again suddenly, and without any attempt at a segue. “I often go for walks, outside the camp…to find a quiet place to think.”

“I’ve noticed,” you answer, with a hint of a smile, and his expression is intrigued, as though he longs to ask what else you have noticed, but he continues.  


“Perhaps next time – only if you wish – you might join me.”

Without hesitation, you nod. “I’d like that.” A bashful silence falls between you, and, remembering your errand at last, you stand, saying apologetically, “Bofur asked me to call you to breakfast, and I’ve chattered long enough that it will surely be cold.” 

“A cold breakfast is no great hardship,” he says gallantly, and as he rises from his seat, he impulsively gathers a cluster of white flowers, looking at them with a small, mysterious smile before holding them out to you with a tentative hand. “For you,” he says, adding, almost shyly, “they are not much, but I am afraid sweet peas are not to be found here in the wilderness.”

You take a step closer to accept the flowers, a heady thrill coursing through you as your fingers softly brush his, and his eyes instinctively meet yours at the contact. You lift the blooms to inhale their faint, sweet scent, and in this moment, though you cannot know it, you are as beautiful to him as you were in his dream. Hope springs to life in his chest, insistent and strong, a warmth that thaws the long winter of his heart, and he has to catch his breath as you give him a radiant smile.


End file.
